A real post! ...sort of. Since I'm trying to check in on everyone's blogs, I thought I would offer a proper post/update with pictures...
So apparently, I am ‟not coping well."
I have dealt with loss before. I'm pretty sure everyone has
dealt with some kind of loss by the time they're into their late 20s (and if
you haven't, consider yourself exceedingly lucky). We lost a cousin to cancer when I was 7. Granddad died when I
was 10. Other Granddad died when I was 13. One of my best friends committed suicide
when I was 13. Uncle died when I was 18 (that one hit me the hardest, before
now). My ex-boyfriend committed suicide a few years ago, right when we had started to get close
again. Granny died two years ago.
None of those compare even remotely to how painful the loss
of my cat is. Callisto was like my best friend/child/dæmon/other half.
Personally I think that warrants the current ruination that is my mental state.
But according to the *experts*, I am Not Coping Well.
In fairness, I suppose that is somewhat accurate. I've kind of
unraveled past the point of even caring whether or not I'm going loopy. The
evidence:
- I cannot go more than 8 hours without breaking down into a
soggy sobbing incoherent mess, which sort of disturbs my normal everyday activities.
- If I want to sleep at all, I need at least 150mg of
diphenhydramine + alcohol, so instead I've been doing the alternate and just
not sleeping more than 3 hours a night (the maximum I can manage without
substances).
- I have had a total and complete epic relapse when it comes to
the abuse of certain substances.
- Since Daisy, the other cat also appears to be very
depressed, I lay on the basement floor with her for up to an hour at a time,
just staring at the wall.
- I haven't decided what I want to do with Callisto's ashes
yet.*
*I cannot part with the last piece of Callisto that
I have left.
- I have taken to sleeping with this pillow:
My stepgrandmother gave it to me years ago, because it looks
just like Callisto.
- I don't eat unless other people give me food (i.e.,
getting dragged out to eat by family and/or friends).
- I have emotional breakdowns when cleaning only Daisy's messes from the cat litter,
or when I find Callisto-hairs in the house or on my person, or when in the supermarket buying cat food only for Daisy.
- I'm approaching hysterics right now, just from writing this.
- At night when I'm reaching the very limits of my sanity, I
crawl into a corner in my room and watch videos of Callisto that are on my phone, or on youtube, and
then cry until I can't breathe.
ugh
This seriously makes the incident formerly known as the
Worst Thing That Ever Happened to Mich look like an over-cliched over-generalized
and poorly scripted episode of Law & order SVU. (And trust me: I watch far
too much SVU, so I know what I'm talking about.) I would very gladly spend a
month locked in a small room with that pervert who still haunts my nightmares
if it would magically bring my cat back.
But he's dead, so I can't even try.
On top of all that, this loss has apparently made me into an
even worse person. Stepdad (also known as the walking dead) is still alive, and
I hate him for it. I can't even be in the same room as him anymore, because I
resent him for every rattling breath he continues to take. Because Callisto
deserved to live, and he--the lying, thieving, spineless scumbag that he
is--continues to live, to the utter befuddlement of all his doctors.
I'm a grumbling little ball of rage and despair and I feel
like I'm going to cave in on myself.
